Better Than the Movies by Lynn Painter

Author:Lynn Painter
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf, mobi
Publisher: Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers
Published: 2021-05-04T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHT

“I like you very much. Just as you are.”

—Bridget Jones’s Diary

I couldn’t believe I was doing it. I stepped over the creaky floorboard in the hallway and quietly crept toward the sliding glass door in the dining room. It was risky, but for some reason I needed to do this.

I wanted to hang out with Wes.

It was probably just that his understanding of my grief made me feel a camaraderie with him. I’d always felt like my visits with my mom were freakish, but I’d also felt like something inside me would break if I had to stop.

That theory would be tested in the fall, though, wouldn’t it?

Regardless, finally sharing it with someone felt almost like a release. It didn’t make sense that he was the one—of all people—for me to share it with, but I was starting to move beyond questioning it.

It also felt nice to not be fighting with Wes for once. Which was weird, because that was our thing; he messed with me and I got pissed. Rinse and repeat, for our whole lives. But now I was discovering that he was hilarious and nice and seemed like more fun than pretty much everyone else I knew.

I slowly pulled open the door, listening for any sounds coming from the other end of the house as Mr. Fitzpervert snaked in between my stockinged feet.

I stepped out onto the deck and slid the door closed behind me. It was a chilly night, with a clear sky and a bright, high moon that lit up the town. I could see moon shadows everywhere, which were beautiful and eerie at the same time.

I crept down the stairs, and once I hit the cold grass, I jogged across the backyard and over to the chain-link fence that separated our yards. It suddenly felt like it had been mere days—not years—since I’d climbed that fence as a kid, and I was over it and in his yard in seconds.

The shadows were creepy, so I kept jogging to the back gate, forgetting any semblance of coolness or composure. I pulled up the arm, opened the gate, and whisper-yelled, “Wes?”

“Over here.”

I could barely see because the thick trees blocked out the moon, but I walked in the direction of his voice. I went around a flowering bush and a wide fir tree, and then there he was.

“Oh my God, Wes.” I looked around, amazed.

There were hundreds of tiny twinkling lights strung in a grouping of trees that circled four wooden Adirondack chairs, one of which Wes was sitting in. A firepit roaring with flames was at the center of everything, and a rock waterfall ran behind him. The space was so thick with foliage that it felt like a wild, hidden spot instead of a suburban backyard. “This is incredible. Did your mom do all of this?”

“Nah.” He shrugged and looked uncomfortable. Wes Bennett looked awkward—for perhaps the first time ever—and he sat there with his long legs stretched out in front of him and looked up at the sky.

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